


TPS Reports

by AdamantSteve



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint doesn't know Phil is such a secret badass, Dating, Falling In Love, Fuckbuddies, M/M, Relationship Issues, accidental fidelity, clint hates suits, clint's crappy apartment, clint's terrible fashion sense, slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 09:49:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint meets a guy at the bar. He's not the sort of guy he'd usually go for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	TPS Reports

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raiining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/gifts), [Ralkana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/gifts).



> A gift for my fellow birthday triplets in lieu of the actual gifts fics which are still in the works.  
> The characters don't know it til later in the story, but in case you're worried about the 'fuckbuddies' tag, they actually don't sleep with anyone else.
> 
> TPS reports and the memos line are references to the movie Office Space :)
> 
> Beta read by Dunicha.

Clint's propping up the bar and nursing his second beer. The pickings are slim tonight, though it's only a tuesday and there are better places to find a hookup in this town. He's not that bothered; a quiet evening by himself - it could be worse.

 

A hand appears to one side of Clint attached to a suit, and Clint readies his 'I'm not into dudes who wear suits' speech to let the guy down gently, but the line never comes. The guy sits on the stool next to him and checks his phone while Clint watches out of the corner of his eye. The bar's busy enough that there's nowhere else to sit, so Clint figures perhaps the guy wasn't about to hit on him after all. Whatever. He doesn't like suits anyway.

 

But, no. The guy clears his throat and Clint looks over. It's one of the handlers from SHIELD, and Clint realises he's wincing too late to stop himself. The guy shakes his head and smiles. "Sorry, I noticed you and figured it'd be weirder if you saw me later on and I hadn't introduced myself. I'm not spying on you."

 

Oh. Huh.

 

"So... I'm not about to get a disciplinary for being in a gay bar?" 

 

The man laughs, and Clint remembers him suddenly - the handler who'd let him talk and talk and talk over the comms that one time and even laughed at a couple of his dumb little observations. Coulson. He hasn't really noticed him since. Must be the suit.

 

"Not unless the rules've changed," the guy replies. Clint looks at him and he explains, "I just came in for a drink after work is all. And I figured it'd be rude not to say hello." He holds out a hand. "Phil."

 

Clint takes it, introducing himself, and is pleased with the man's handshake: not so weak as to be feeble but not the SHIELD-issue death-squeeze either. It's a good handshake. The bartender comes by with Phil's beer and Clint watches him drink it. He's not bad looking from the neck up, has the whole older dude thing going that Clint likes, though yeah, suit. It makes him itchy just looking at it. 

 

"I read the report on Costa Rica," Phil says when he's swallowed, turning a little on his stool. "Did you really blow up that cruise ship with a single arrow?" 

Clint grins and looks away, cause it's such a dumb story. "Just doin' my job," he replies, taking another sip of beer. 

 

Phil takes a breath. "I'll let you get back to your drink, I didn't mean to interrupt your night."

He starts to turn even more on the stool as though he's about to get up but Clint stops him. "You didn't." He shrugs and looks around. "Not really my scene tonight." 

 

Phil raises an eyebrow and turns back. "What is your scene?" 

 

Clint runs the edge of his thumbnail down the side of the label on his bottle, moist enough from the condensation that it could peel right off. He shrugs and pulls a face. "No offense? But less suits. This place is full of office dudes." He wrinkles his nose and looks around again. "I usually come on a Thursday when there's a pool competition and the crowd's kinda different."

 

"You think I'm an 'office dude'?" Phil asks, amused. 

Clint smiles and shakes his head. "I didn't mean you!" 

Phil cocks his head in disbelief and Clint laughs. "I overheard a conversation that was literally about TPS reports." 

"Did they send a memo round?"

"They did! Seriously!" 

 

They both chuckle into their beers and Clint orders himself another. He won't be drunk for a good few more and he was planning on catching a cab home anyway. And huh, he's actually having fun seeing where this could go. 

"You know, I kinda thought you guys weren't allowed off premises," Clint says once they've clinked their bottles together. 

"Us office dudes, you mean?" 

Clint rolls his eyes and tuts. Phil grins, which... Hmm.

"The handlers. You guys are always all so... by the book; straightlaced. Kinda imagined Fury powering you down at the end of the day and putting you in a closet." 

"Wow," Phil says. "First I'm an office dude and now I'm a robot?" 

 

Clint laughs and covers his face with a hand. "God, I'm sorry. I don't mean to be a jerk. It's just weird seeing someone who's so much a part of SHIELD in the context of this place. Or in the context of any place that's not the Helicarrier or Pegasus-"

"-or a surveillance van." 

Clint nods. "Exactly."

"Well," Phil says, picking at his own label. "I'm not a robot." 

"You sure?" Clint pretends to look for wires, leaning to look at Phil's back. "You might not even know it."

Phil watches him with cool eyes before clucking his teeth. "You're kind of an asshole, you know that?" 

 

Clint grins. "I've been told."

"No shit."

 

-

 

They end up playing pool, and obviously, Clint is amazing, even three beers down, but Phil puts up a good fight, blocking him off as well as he can before losing abysmally. "Rematch?" Phil asks, looking sadly at the balls he still has on the table. Clint's about to ask if Phil wants to put money on it, but then the lights flash and he realises that the bar is almost empty. 

"Shit, I wasted all your hooking up time," he says, and he's genuinely dismayed cause it turns out this guy is pretty cool, and works really hard and deserves to get laid once in a while. 

 

"Hooking up time? What am I a teenager?" 

"Sorry, what do you call it? Romancing? Wooing?" 

"I didn't come here with an agenda, I just wanted a drink!"

Clint narrows his eyes, cause who goes to a gay bar just for a drink? "Right, right." 

Phil pats his pockets for his wallet and keys. "Do you want to share a cab back to base or are you going on somewhere else?" 

 

Clint hadn't even thought of that. "Sure," he says sheepishly. "You live on base?"

Phil shrugs and heads for the door.

 

"You know I could teach you some tricks," he says in the cab. "I mean, I doubt you'd be able to beat me, but..." 

"Hey I can hold my own. It's not every day you play pool with the world's greatest marksman." 

Clint looks out the window for a while, watching lights whizz by.

"You wanna come back to mine?" Clint says, and he's kinda surprised at himself once he's said it at just how much he likes the idea. He's still looking out the window in case he's mortally offended the guy, but when he looks, Phil smiling hesitantly. "You sure?" 

Clint shrugs and smiles. "It's the forfeit for losing at pool - you have to suck my dick." 

"Oh is that the rule?"

"That's the rule, man." 

 

-

 

Phil's surprisingly great at blowjobs, and when Clint reciprocates (cause he's not a complete asshole) kind of amazing at getting them too - one hand ever so gently resting on the side of Clint's head as he tries to do better than the one he had moments before. He has to admit, maybe Coulson is better at this. 

 

-

 

Clint doesn't see him for a while after that, though he's marked as involved with a few missions he gets sent on, just in the planning and organisation roles rather than field work. He finally turns up in New Jersey when Clint is shivering on a rooftop, taking over from Martinez on comms after hour eight. He'd said he missed being in the field since reaching Level Six and Clint is pleased to see him on duty and glad to chatter away again like he had the last time. 

 

The mission is a success and Clint doesn't have to shoot a gun, which is always nice. All the agents involved go to dinner before they return, piling into a mom and pop italian place that plays up the New Jersey mafia angle despite being run by people from Poland. 

 

Clint ends up next to Phil and they talk about the different shapes of pasta for way too long, til most of the other agents have gone back to their motel rooms already and Clint's just eating everyone's left overs. 

 

"You wanna see my hotel room?" Phil asks, and yes, Clint does. They're on the way out when Phil turns a different way from the motel all the other agents are in, and he chuckles at Clint. "Hotel," he repeats. 

 

-

 

Phil's pretty good at sex, too. 

 

-

 

Phil is back on field duty more after that, and now that Clint's properly noticed him, he's amazing to watch. He blends brilliantly, and Clint actually loses sight of him a few times. He says as much, and Phil flatly reminds him of his Office Dude credentials. 

 

They see each other in the cafeteria and join the queue, talking about the big mission in Antigua that everyone’s working on before squeezing in across from one another on one of the long, narrow tables of the mess hall. It’s busier than usual since everyone descends on the mess after a shipment, and the clattering of utensils and low roar of a hundred or so voices talking over one another almost drown out Phil’s voice. Clint has to lean in to hear him, and he can smell the faint aftershave he’d been wearing the first night they properly met at the bar. 

 

Their knees touch under the table, and Clint shifts so they both have one knee between each other’s. Phil eats daintily and they talk about some of the personnel changes that’ve happened down at the Pegasus Facility, and his face gives no indication of how he’s pressing his knee very firmly against Clint’s inner thigh or how Clint’s fingers are drawing little figure eights on his leg. Clint’s about to ask where the level 6 quarters are when Phil wipes his hands on a napkin and stands up. “I could show you if you like,” he says offhandedly. “I have the hardcopy files in my quarters if you don’t have anywhere to be.” 

 

Clint looks down at the sandwich in his hand so as not to grin, polishing it off in two huge bites that he struggles to swallow as he stands and swings his leg over the bench. 

 

-

 

Phil’s quarters are kinda big, considering. He says they’re soundproofed too, which Clint takes full advantage of.

 

-

 

The thing is, Phil is really easy to be around. Clint takes that for granted at first, because he’d never noticed the guy before and never had reason to think any differently, but he slowly realises how other people scurry away when they hear him coming, how people whisper wild stories about him that sound like urban legends. Phil Coulson is a big deal, apparently, and Clint feels kinda like a jackass for never having realised that before. 

 

He’s no different with Clint though. Clint doesn’t get the measured, cold Agent schtick, he gets the genial, quick-to-laugh version of the man. Sure, it makes sense that the guy he’s fucking around with doesn’t act all cold during the act, but the rest of the time, Agent Coulson is Phil, and he seems to genuinely like Clint even when they aren’t fucking each other through the mattress. 

 

“Listen,” Phil says one afternoon a few months in, balling up a damp wad of tissue and pursing his lips. Clint feels a hum of disappointment that makes his shoulders tense as much as they’re able post-orgasm. ‘Listen’ is never good.

“I’m going to Portland next week.”

 

Phil lets a short silence drag and Clint grins. “You got a guy in every port, Phil?” He can believe it, too. Makes sense. 

“Something like that,” Phil chuckles. “A woman, actually. Is that a problem?” 

Clint frowns. “That she’s a woman or that you’re... special friends?” 

Phil looks a little taken aback and he laughs. “We’re just going out for dinner, but... it’s not exactly a formal arrangement or anything.” 

 

Clint’s not sure if he means the thing with the woman in Portland or the thing with him. He takes a deep breath as he sits up. “It’s fine, Phil,” he reassures, because it is. Clint’s not stopped... well. Now that he thinks of it, he has stopped sleeping with other people, but only cause this was easier. He’s still flirted with people and been happily flirted with. 

“Just tell me one thing,” he says gravely. “Does she have nicer boobs than me?” 

Phil snorts and tosses the tissue at him.

 

-

 

Phil’s gone for a week, and the rumours that Clint can’t help overhearing since his ears got attuned to the name Coulson have him out of the country on some top secret mission. Clint wonders if _that’s_ true and Phil spun _him_ a story, that the hookup in Portland is just a cover for top secret mission things. Coulson is kind of a mystery after all. Clint goes to the bar again, but it’s a slow night, he decides, the wrong sort of crowd, riding his bike back to base alone. He actually does some work for once. 

 

Phil comes back and doesn’t seem very different, though Clint thinks the wrinkles around his eyes might look a little softer than they did before. Either that or he’s just glad to see the guy and he somehow magically seems more attractive for it. 

 

When Clint realises that, he goes to the range and runs through all his arrows because _no_. Nope. No thanks. Clint’s not an idiot. Well, he _is_ , but he is aware of his idiocy and his tendencies and it’s suddenly not ok that he _missed_ someone. Someone in a _suit_ , no less. People in suits are a particular kind of person, and Clint knows better than to ever get too attached to them. He’s amazed that it even happened; he’s had the fuckbuddy thing with other people before, and that was fine. This guy though. Fucking suit. 

 

-

 

There’s never been much formality to this thing, usually they’ll bump into one another and sneak off someplace or after a short text exchange Clint’ll go up to Phil’s quarters, once or twice a week, give or take. But this time, with Clint trying very actively to not think about Phil (and not so subtly avoiding him as a result), it’s a week before they cross paths properly. 

 

“You wanna get some lunch?” Phil asks, leaning against a stack of weights in the gym when Clint sits up on a bench. He doesn’t jump, because that would be embarrassing, but privately he curses the way the guy does that. Phil looks so at ease in the middle of a gym full of sweaty people in sweaty clothes, in that stupid suit that he wears like a second skin. He holds out a towel and Clint takes it. 

 

After he’s showered, they go to a pho place where Phil orders in Vietnamese, of course. Clint looks at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

Phil wrinkles his nose. “Rosetta Stone,” he admits, as though somehow using software to learn a language isn’t impressive enough. 

 

They talk and eat, and it’s pretty good, really. Clint’s not sure what his problem was. He’s comfortable around Phil, and yeah, they’re friends. What’s the big deal? Sure, they’re friends who sometimes scratch each others itches, so to speak, but still. Clint listens to Phil talk about some mission in Pakistan they’re planning and tries to remember what he was feeling so panicky about before. He’s not so much jealous of Portland Woman as... he’s not sure. It’s not that he doesn’t want anyone else to have Phil as much as it is he’s worried about not getting any of him for himself. 

 

“What’s the matter?” Phil asks, tipping his bottle of beer to drink and then licking his lips. 

Clint frowns and huffs, pushing a short bit of noodle around his bowl. After a false start, he says, “We’re friends, right?” 

 

Phil practically grins in response, which Clint almost laughs at. “I’d like to think so.” 

“Even without the...” It’s obvious what he means. 

“Of course,” Phil replies. Something seems to dawn on his face and he rushes to add, “I didn’t invite you to lunch just to-” A waiter brings them two new beers and Clint feels like he might blush, which is weird since he’s not sure he’s ever blushed before. 

“I just wanted to see you,” Phil says simply. “‘Cause you’re my friend.”

 

Clint slurps his noodles way louder than he needs to before he steels himself to ask about Portland. “So how was the trip? Rumour has it you were saving the world.”

Phil looks at him consideringly before smiling again. “I kind of accidentally thwarted a bank heist, but other than that, it was pretty relaxing.” 

The smirk on his face says everything Clint expected it to, and somehow that settles him. Of course he hooked up with her. What else? Anyway, it’s fine. He eats more noodles. 

 

“A bank heist, huh?” 

Phil shrugs a ‘what are you gonna do?’ kind of shrug and they both smile, though Clint’s not sure what he’s feeling behind it. Part of him wants to dig and find out everything about the woman, find out what Phil’s willing to tell him. Another part of him doesn’t want to know. So instead he leans back and details three imaginary men that he met at the bar, broadly implying that he brought them all home. Phil nods and acts surprised, laughing at such exploits and congratulating him where necessary. 

“You didn’t miss me then, I guess?” 

Clint shrugs like it’s a joke. When did he start to care this much? 

 

It’s not til they get back into Phil’s car that Clint realises how impossible it would have been to bring three people back to base on his bike.

 

“Listen,” Phil says when they’re driving round the parking lot to get to Phil’s space. Clint tenses. “I’d invite you up to my quarters but I have to go to a meeting right now and I’m not sure you’d want me to ask you anyway.” 

Before Clint can answer that, Phil continues. “But either way, I do like - being friends. I don’t actually have a lot of people in my life I call friends.”

As he says it, it sounds like a realisation. “But whatever works best for you, you have my number, ok?” 

 

-

 

Clint uses the number the next night, and for once, Phil comes to Clint’s quarters, tiny and cramped as they are. They eat pizza from the mess hall, and Phil laughs at how it feels like basic training all over again. That leads on to a conversation about the army and vicious eye-rolls from Phil over Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, which somehow leads on to making out and hands down pants. Phil rolls gracefully down onto his knees and pulls Clint’s cock out before gazing at it fondly. “I missed this,” he murmurs, and Clint tries not to think about that but then, of course, can’t think of anything else.

 

“Phil,” he says, and he can’t believe he’s actually stopping someone - especially someone as amazing at oral sex as Phil Coulson - in the middle of a blowjob. Phil looks up inquisitively, still with Clint’s cock in his mouth til Clint pushes him back enough for it to slide out with a soft pop. 

“What’s the matter?” Phil asks, and Clint reaches out to wipe the guy’s chin. It’s never a great idea to have important conversations with a hard dick, but Clint’s never had many great ideas anyhow. 

 

He works on forming his question for a minute, which is hard because so much of the blood his brain needs is elsewhere, hovering next to the wonderful world of pleasure that is Phil Coulson’s mouth, which is still shiny and wet and super distracting. He balls his fists on his thighs and concentrates. 

“Do you only date women?” he asks, and then he rolls his eyes at how high his voice came out. 

Phil sort of half-frowns and sits back. “I thought you just wanted this to be a casual thing.”

“No, I do!” Clint insists. “This is awesome! I just. Uh...” He trails off, because he’s not sure what he wants, so can’t hope to articulate it.

“We can date if you want,” Phil says, as if it’s that simple. 

“No!” Clint replies, harsh enough that Phil laughs, bemused. Clint shakes his head. “No, I mean. Uh. Can you just not date anyone else? Or like, you can date other people but still... this, too?” 

 

 _What a dumb thing to say_ , Clint thinks once it’s out in the air, and he cringes at himself. Phil’s looking at him kindly, and ugh, Clint hates _kindness_. He’s messed everything up now. He shakes his head again. “You just give really good blowjobs, and it would be a shame for them to go to waste on someone who doesn’t have a dick.” 

 

Phil laughs again and gets up off the floor with much less grace than he’d gotten down there with. He brushes off his pants and reaches into them to shift his erection, tucking in his shirt from where Clint had rucked it up earlier. Clint’s heart sinks. 

“Listen,” Phil says, curling a hand around Clint’s neck to tip his face up towards him. Clint meets his eyes warily. “Let’s date a little and see how it goes, and if it sucks, we stop, and we can go back to this,” he gestures vaguely between them and at Clint’s stupid erection that’s begun to droop against his thigh. Clint wants to say something like ‘I don’t really like dating,’ but Phil’s bent to kiss him, and it’s not fair because it takes the words right out of his mouth.

 

-

 

Clint looks himself over in the mirror for the twentieth time, poking at his eyebrow and wondering if he ought to steal Natasha’s tweezers and try to neaten them up. She’d be too suspicious, and he’d probably mess them up anyhow, so he steps back and looks at himself in full. He’s wearing slacks and he feels like a prize rube, like he’s wearing giant clown pants or something. He’s also wearing tight, squeaky dress shoes he’s not sure are even his, dug out of the bottom of his tiny little wardrobe. 

Clint’s pretty sure he looks like an idiot, but there’s no time to change, cause someone’s knocking on the door. Clint glances at the clock and frowns, cause Coulson’s way early, and hadn’t they arranged to meet at the museum? 

 

He gingerly opens the door to find Natasha, who rolls her eyes and deflates when she sees him, pushing past him to rifle through the heap of clothes on his bed. “I’m not going to ask who you’re going on a date with, but whoever it is, I’m sure they’ll like you just fine in normal people clothes.”

“These _are_ normal people clothes, Nat,” Clint counters, but he doesn’t complain when she hands him his worn black jeans. “Are you sure? You’re meant to make an effort on dates, right?” 

“An effort, yes,” she says, ruffling his hair back into it’s more usual style. “A total image overhaul, no.” 

 

Nat’s seen it all and grown impossibly bored with it, so Clint strips off and changes in front of her. She roots around the shoebox Clint’s pulled out from under the bed, cringing at the the whiffs she takes of his assortment of aftershave samples and dried up old favourites. She looks particularly concerned at one called Le Tigre before Clint pulls it from her hand and puts it back in the box, which he nudges back under the bed. “I bought a new one,” he says, and he’s weirdly proud about it, brandishing the bottle like a street hustler. She tugs it from his hand and does her _‘surprisingly not terrible’_ face when she smells it, which Clint takes as a win. 

“Where did you get the shoes?” she asks, toeing one suspiciously where it’s laying on the floor by Clint’s trainers. “They were in the wardrobe,” he explains. “No good?” 

Natasha looks at him. “No.” 

 

Clint pulls up on his bike, and the only new thing he’s wearing now are the sunglasses he bought on his trip to the drugstore for the aftershave, and the aftershave itself. He finds Phil sitting on a bench outside the museum in his own pair of shades, his usual suit present and correct, but the jacket neatly folded over one arm and no tie in sight. It’s a little disarming seeing the man outside of his regular habitat and without that everyman armour, but it’s nice too, and the ‘suit = bad times’ feeling, though never completely gone, is much less so, and Clint feels himself relax. 

 

“You look nice,” Phil remarks, and Clint giggles, because it’s so _date-y_. When Phil asks what he’s laughing at, he says just that, and Phil nudges their shoulders together. “Well, you do.” 

 

“You look nice too,” Clint says, and the stilted way it comes out is exactly why he hates dating. Phil seems to pick up on it, because how could he not? And he stops Clint with a hand on his elbow at the bottom of the steps up to the entrance. “Clint, we’ve hung out before. And we’ve... _hung out_ , before. Just relax. There’s no... precedence here. I just thought you’d like this exhibition and thought it’d be nice to go to it together.” He shrugs and lets go of Clint’s elbow, and just like always, he makes Clint feel like he was worrying about nothing. 

 

He takes a deep breath and smiles, turning back to the museum when he catches sight of the banner hanging down one side of the entrance - he’d been so caught up in _‘am I walking weird?’_ and worrying about whether or not to hold Phil’s hand that he hadn’t noticed it before. “Archery through the ages? Are you fucking kidding me?!” 

 

-

 

After excitedly chatting Phil’s ear off about the good points (the amazing original paleolithic arrowheads - I’ve tried making those things before Phil, it’s way harder than it looks) and the bad points (leaves as fletching? Please) of the exhibition over some weirdly tiny burgers that Clint eats at least twelve of, he’s much less worried over messing things up, because it is just a nice day out, hanging out with his... cool friend Phil. Phil asks him questions and smiles when Clint answers, and it’s only on the quiet walk back to his bike that Clint realises how few things he’s actually asked Phil, too caught up in his dorky excitement over the museum. 

 

He says as much, suddenly consumed by concern that he’s been the most terrible date and failed miserably at everything, but Phil chuckles under his breath and turns into him, lit by the warm evening streetlights, catching Clint’s elbow again. “Don’t apologise for being excited,” he says, and his other hand is on Clint’s other elbow, and they’re kinda close together now, which is pretty... nice? Clint thinks maybe Phil’s going to kiss him, which is something they’ve done a heap of times by now, but never somewhere outside, with people ignoring them as they pass in a rush, cars driving by paying them no interest. 

“Are you going to kiss me?” Clint asks, because he has never been and will apparently never become smooth, not when he has time to overthink things, or think about them at all, for that matter. 

 

“I was thinking about it,” Phil admits, and his eyes are so blue, Clint thinks, so blue and so nice.  Clint laughs, since he doesn’t know what else to do. “In the street?” 

It ruins the moment, and Phil rolls his eyes as he lets go of Clint and steps away. “Maybe next time,” he says, which sucks, and Clint steps forward and grabs Phil’s elbow himself. 

“ _This_ time,” he insists, and maybe he pouts, just a little bit, but Phil doesn’t stop him from leaning close and pressing their lips together, opening up at Clint’s coaxing, wrapping his arms around Clint and putting his all into it. Clint’s not sure he’s ever made out on the street before like this, certainly never with a dude, but he doesn’t care, cause it’s hard to worry too much about things with Phil by his side. Or in front of him, anyway.

 

“You know, I don’t usually sleep with people on the first date,” Phil says, sucking in a breath when they pull apart. 

At Clint’s sound of dismay, Phil grins and pushes him toward the bike. “I’m kidding! Take me home.” 

 

Clint’s driven people around on his bike before, but never quite been as acutely aware of their arms around his waist as he is of Phil’s.

 

-

 

“So that went well,” Clint murmurs, sex-sated and boneless, fingers combing through Phil’s soft hair. Phil presses a kiss to Clint’s pectoral and grins up at him, and if he was handsome before, he’s pretty much breathtaking now, flushed skin and beautiful, lazy smile. 

“It did,” he agrees. “You’re... very talented.” 

“Me? Phil, do you even _have_ a gag reflex?” 

Phil smirks. “That’s classified.”

 

-

 

Phil arranges their next date, and then apparently that’s how it works - they go out, spend time together, and then they fuck. Clint’s not sure if it’s just his imagination, but he’s pretty sure it’s better when they fuck after a date compared to when it was just the sex on it’s own, cause when there’s a date, he has that much longer to anticipate the sex, so by the time they’re finally alone with a suitable surface, it’s perfect.

 

-

 

They’re not especially secretive about it, what with all the kissing in the street and the hand-holding (which Clint feels like such a dork about), but it takes a surprisingly long time for word to get round SHIELD about their relationship. That’s weird, calling it a relationship. Clint’s been keeping the ‘oh shits’ at bay by telling himself it’s just a really long term fuckbuddies deal, but then Gloria from weapons division asks him how long it’s been and he freaks out. 

 

He does the sensible thing of course, which is picking a motel out of the phone book and finding a place on google maps that looks remote but still has a McDonalds before Phil shows up, looking kinda irritated.

 

“What are you doing?” he asks incredulously. He’s in his most suity suit, and Clint can barely look at him. He can’t answer either, because he has no idea. 

 

“I was just. Thinking about. Taking some days.” God, he is the worst liar. 

“Clint, c’mon. What’s the matter?”

Clint glances over and cringes away again. “Could you maybe take your jacket off? And the tie?” 

“You can’t solve everything with sex, Clint.” 

“No, that’s not what I mean. Please?” 

 

Clint’s been around him - been with him, long enough to recognise Phil’s _‘alright I will do as you ask even though I don’t know what you’re talking about/doing/thinking’_ breath, and that ought to scare him, but instead it makes him feel a little better. 

 

“There,” he says, and when Clint looks back, letting his go-bag drop to the floor, Phil’s hanging up the jacket with the tie on the hook on the back of Clint’s door. He turns back and spreads his arms. “So?”

 

Clint goes and wraps himself around Phil, pleased to feel his embrace reciprocated, but then he can’t let go, and Phil has to guide them over to the bed before Clint will relinquish his grip. “I’m sorry,” Clint says. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” 

Phil probably knows, but he’s too nice to say so. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” 

He sounds like he truly believes it too, which is crazy ridiculous, and Clint can’t stop himself from snorting in disbelief.

“Why did you want me to take my tie off?” he asks next, and Clint looks from where he’s been pressing his face against Phil’s shoulder as though it’s the first he’s heard of it. 

“Can I tell you something?” he asks quietly, and he almost wants Phil to say no, because it seems like the sort of thing that’ll be a deal breaker for the guy who has loyalty cards for more than one suitmaker.

“You hate suits,” Phil answers, and for the big reveal Clint had imagined it to be, it’s a bit of a let down. 

“How did you know?” 

“It’s pretty obvious.” 

“Oh.” 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” 

 

Phil shifts and leans against the wall so that Clint can lay with his head in Phil’s lap. He runs his fingers through his hair, which is too good. He just wants that and to not be serious and adult right now. 

 

“It’s just that all the Suits I ever saw as a kid, and after I was a kid” - which meant, before my parents died and after they died, but Phil already knew that - “Suits were like this race of aliens, these doomsayers that just appeared and fucked everything up. We lived in this crappy little house, but it was _our_ house, you know? And a pair of Suits appeared and then we lived in a trailer instead. Suits’d come over and talk to my mom and then Dad’d be all pissed after. And when they died there were goddamn social workers, who were the worst Suits of all. And then we’d get fostered by people pretending not to be Suits, but they’d always put one on when they’d bring us back to the Home. ‘N’ I know you’re not - no one in a suit is a _Suit_ , that’s not even a thing. It’s dumb.” 

“Not it’s not,” Phil says quietly. “That’s not dumb at all. I’m sorry I’ve... If you’d asked me to I’d have worn something else.” 

Clint lets out an unhappy sigh, turning to press his face against Phil’s thigh. “Why’re you so nice to me?” 

 

“Cause you’re my friend.” 

Clint’s not sure if that’s it, then; the end of this weird little ‘relationship’. He turns again so he can see Phil’s face. “You just want to be friends?” 

Phil shakes his head, looking sad. 

“Not friends at all?” 

“ _No_ , Clint. I don’t know if I should tell you this since you were about to go AWOL, but. I don’t want to just be friends. I think I might be in love with you.” 

 

Clint stops breathing for a second, and then he’s up on his knees so quickly it makes him dizzy. “With me?” 

Phil shrugs and makes an odd little shape with his mouth. 

“Since when?” 

“Since Portland. I realised I didn’t want anyone else. Just you.” He looks guilty, and Clint’s not sure he’s ever looked like that before. “I haven’t slept with anyone else since that first night at the bar.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry.” 

Clint laughs and shakes his head, more relieved than he’d ever expected to be. “Me either,” he admits. “I just… never got round to it.” Phil’s expression blossoms into a bright smile and he kisses back with his hands pressed either side of Clint’s face.

“What about the three guys from the bar?” Phil’s face says he knows Clint was lying all along. Clint rolls his eyes. 

“Shut up. You love me.” 

“Yeah,” Phil agrees easily. “I guess I do.”

 

They look at each other in the fresh light of their revelations before Clint breaks their gaze to look down at where their hands are now tangled together. “Why?” 

“I’m not sure,” Phil laughs, but he squeezes Clint’s hand and accepts the kiss Clint presses to his neck and the rest that Clint starts covering him with, interrupting him as he speaks. “I mean, you’re kind of a brat some of the time, and you” - kiss - “drive like a maniac, and you always steal the” - kiss - “olives off my pizza-” He stills Clint with hands on his neck. “Please don’t leave?” 

Clint nods and tries to move in for another kiss, but Phil holds him steady. “Promise me you won’t leave, at least without telling me beforehand.” 

 

“I wasn’t really gonna leave. I just. God. A _relationship_ , y’know? I’m so bad at them, Phil.” 

Phil slides his hands down to Clint’s shoulders. “We’re just really good friends with really good benefits.” 

Clint slowly grins, and without really thinking it through, but finding he means it once it’s come out, says, “I love you.” 

 

Phil looks at him and shakes his head, but he’s grinning when he does it. “You don’t _have_ to say it, you know.” 

“But I do. Love you, I mean. That’s weird to say. I mean I think I love you. I... do like you a lot.” 

“Well, that’s good enough for me.” 

 

-

 

Phil’s cool about it, but Clint’s gotten to know him well enough by now to know he’s pretty buzzed to be able to casually mention his boyfriend and then act nonchalant when people who aren’t in the know try to work out if it’s some weird kind of mind game. He teases Phil about it in private, and there are more private times now, in between the dates and the sex - they get more and more comfortable in each others presence. There are breakfasts and coffees to go, morning kisses and ‘ _Honey I’m home!_ ’s from both of them. Phil’s quarters are bigger than Clint’s, but still not quite big enough for two, and it’s Phil tripping over Clint’s boots twice in the space of five minutes that triggers a frowny discussion about needing to _figure something out._  

 

Clint loves him, cause he says things like ‘figure something out’ rather than ‘we should just move in together already’, even if they both know that’s what he means. Clint shuffles his boots under the bed and grins with accomplishment. “There, I figured it out.”

Phil crowds over him, standing between Clint’s legs where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed to kiss his forehead. “Thanks,” he says wryly, and Clint feels like a dick. 

 

He finds a crappy apartment block one day when he’s riding around trying to find an old pierogi place. He tells himself it’s just that there’s a cute dog outside and a fluffy headed little kid drawing with chalk on the pavement, but he develops a fascination for the place. Clint starts thinking about living there and how maybe Phil’d want to stay sometimes even though it's kinda far from Base, the area's bad, and there’s a weird smell. 

 

Phil knows he’s plotting something, but doesn’t bring it up for a while, til Clint brings pierogies back to base for the fifth time in a week. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing, or...?” Phil asks, nibbling on the edge of one. He’s cute. 

 

What Clint’s doing, but in that way where not admitting it to himself somehow makes it not real, is fixing up the crappiest apartment in the crappiest building in a pretty crappy area of the city. There’s plaster in his hair, which Phil brushes away with his free hand. 

“Just workin’ on a project,” Clint says, and that’s true so it’s ok. 

A shadow passes over Phil’s face for a brief moment, and suddenly Clint wants to tell him everything, especially when Phil says quietly as he turns away, “Just remember you promised to tell me before you run away.” 

 

“No! Phil, aw, crap. That’s so not... Uh. Can you trust me on this? It’s just a thing I’m working on, but when it’s done it’ll be awesome, and I’ll tell you all about it and you’ll be all ‘Clint, you’re amazing’ and shit.” 

Phil takes the bag out of Clint’s hand and lets it make a damp mark on the kitchen counter as he slides his arms around Clint and kisses him. “Well I already think you’re amazing.” 

Clint rolls his eyes like he always does when Phil gives him praise, a shitty habit he’s been trying to stop. Phil probably knows exactly what Clint’s up to, but he doesn’t not-mention moving in together, even when he trips over Clint’s boots again.

 

-

 

Clint ends up buying the whole building, which is so not what he’d planned on, and there are at least ten parts of becoming a property investor (which sounds so much fancier than the reality) more than he’d expected. There’s a russian gang that are something out of a cold war movie crossed with MTV cribs, that dog that seems to have decided to move into the apartment along with it’s collection of grody old bits of pizza and fleas, and an assortment of pretty great people who actually live in the place, that surprisingly enough seem to see Clint as one of their own, especially after managing to scare off the majority of the weirdo Russian guys. 

 

It’s still kind of a dump, but it’s _his_ dump, and after taking the dog to a vet and buying it (him) a bowl and a purple dog bed and telling it to stop eating pizza already, he brings Phil over.

 

On the ride there, Clint starts seeing all the aspects of the place that seem so incongruous with Phil: the guy belongs in a place with a door man that wears gloves and knows everyone’s names. There’s a puddle of piss next to a dumpster outside the building when he pulls up on the bike, which Clint hopes against hope Phil doesn’t notice. 

 

“I’ve been running low on black tar heroin,” Phil says as he slides off the bike, “how did you know?”

 

“Shut up,” Clint says, holding out a hand for Phil to take as he unlocks the front door. He recently replaced that, so it’s not as bad as it might’ve been, but the cracked linoleum of the entrance hall, much like the rest of the communal areas of the place, has yet to be dealt with. Still, he wanted Phil to see it sooner rather than later, and was running out of ideas for what exactly to do with the bathroom. 

 

Clint’s heart thumps in his chest on the way up the stairs to the top floor. The curly-haired kid (Carlos) is playing on one of the stairwells with Captain America and Hawkeye action figures, which Clint catches Phil looking at jealously. “Dork,” he mutters under his breath.

 

They make it to the front door of Clint’s apartment and he lets them inside. Clint doesn’t know much about interior design but it’s clean and roomy, and the windows are big and wide, letting the mid-afternoon Sunday sun illuminate the hardwood flooring that Clint installed the week before. 

“There’s not a lot of furniture,” Clint says, stepping in and turning to see Phil’s reaction, “but I figured you could help me with it?” 

 

Phil’s face slowly cracks into a broad, proud smile, and he pulls Clint into a tight hug. “You did this?” he asks after a minute. His voice is a little wet. 

“I... yeah,” Clnt replies, reaching behind Phil to push the door shut. 

“Show me.” Phil lets go and marches over to the window, looking out at the street below before turning excitedly back to Clint. “Was it like the rest of the building before?” 

 

Clint shows Phil around the poky, plain bathroom and the simple but well appointed kitchen, pointing out where he was thinking of putting another couch before agreeing that the ratty one that had been there when he bought the place might be replaceable too. The one room that Clint made sure to make an effort to finish before showing it to Phil was the bedroom, though it mostly just contains a bed with sheets and a plastic bag hanging off the bed post containing lube. He shows it to Phil last, tugging him towards the bed as much to sit down as anything else, especially considering Phil’s reaction to the splotchy couch. 

 

He looks at Phil with a face he’s learned from the dog, expectant and needy, determining to reward the dog with a chew toy or something when it gets him a long kiss. 

 

“It’s a nice place,” Phil says. “You really want me to help you decorate?” 

He says it as though it’s not a pain-in-the-ass of a favour to Clint, like he likes the idea. “Of course, I mean, if you don’t mind.”

Phil looks around again and kisses Clint once more. “I’ll miss you being so near.” 

“Huh?” 

“Maybe I can have a drawer? Or a little bit of closet space?"

“Phil you idiot, that’s... Crap I should’ve cut you some keys. I thought you could... I mean it’s not Park Avenue or anything but I wanted for you to live here. I mean if you want. Wait, shit are you even allowed to live off-base?” 

 

“Really?” 

Clint pulls a face and shrugs, because he was pretty sure Phil would want to move in but not so sure as to be able to be serious about it. “Or we can sell it and like, get a place with a door guy and an elevator and stuff.” 

“No, I love it.” 

“Did you see the piss out front?” 

“Yes.”

“There’s a dog that kinda lives here but I don’t know where he is. Sometimes he smells real bad.” 

“That’s ok.” 

“There’s a weird Russian gang that are kinda pissed at me.” 

“We’ll stick Natasha on them.” 

“Phil.”

“ _Clint_.” 

“You’re crazy, why would you ever want to live here?”

Phil laughs and leans close. “I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be,” he whispers, breath tickling Clint’s lips before they close the distance with a kiss.

 

-

 

Phil’s a genius, obviously, and he does some Disney Princess shit with the place, transforming it practically overnight. A new, huge, awesome purple couch appears, and the dog somehow knows not to go on it because apparently Phil can also commune with animals. Clint comes home with a heap of groceries to find each of the windows with gauzy white curtains blowing softly in the breeze and Phil singing along to the radio in the bathroom where he’s painstakingly applying tiny purple and black tiles to the bathroom walls. Some of them are iridescent, some matte, some shiny, each one less than an inch square. Clint watches him for a moment; Phil doesn’t stop singing to the Supremes even though he must know Clint’s there. He’s in sweats and one of Clint’s paint shirts, there’s a little chunk of tile grout on the edge of his ear. Phil turns and grins, and a tingle of warmth shoots through the marrow of Clint’s bones at how exactly right everything is just at this moment.

 

“This is gonna take you forever, you know.”

Clint slides up behind Phil and puts his arms around his waist, kissing his neck. 

“It will if you insist on distracting me every time you see me in a tshirt.”

Clint hums happily and nuzzles Phil’s neck some more before he puts down the tiles and turns in his arms for proper kisses. “ _My_ tshirt,” Clint clarifies. What does Phil expect? “You busy tonight?” 

Phil cuts off a soft gasp at Clint’s lips on his neck and chuckles. “No. You wanna fool around?” 

“I mean-” Clint shrugs but keeps up his work on Phil’s neck, sliding his hands down to cup Phil’s ass through the soft fabric of his sweats before picking him up completely and wrapping his legs around his waist. 

“I think you should stay over,” he says on the way to their bedroom, more furniture now, with more stuff of Phil’s than Clint’s in it. 

Phil pretends to think about it. “Hmm, alright,” he says, laying back when Clint lowers him to the bed. “I _guess_ I can stay.” 

 

-

 

The dog gets fleas at least once a month, and there’s always a puddle of something out front, but Natasha (and Phil, Clint and this sort of annoying but awesome girl called Kate) manage to deal with the Russians. Clint fixes up the linoleum in the entrance hall, and Phil befriends Carlos over action figures because he’s a 6 year old boy at heart. It’s as messy as everything they do, because that’s just how life is for Clint Barton, but somehow it all works out just right.

 

It becomes _‘their_ apartment’. It becomes a home, and it’s much more real for being something Clint built himself, not somewhere he’s tolerated, not somewhere he’s _allowed_ to stay. There’s no one to kick him out or tell him what to do, cause he’s the lord of his own manor, and it brings him a peace he never knew he was looking for.

 

Phil keeps his on-base quarters, but for all intents and purposes, lives with Clint. It’s less scary now for some reason to call what they have a relationship, even if Clint still jokes that Phil’s his roommate. 

 

“I’m glad that you beat me at pool,” Phil admits one night in the dark next to Clint. It rouses him from where he’d been drifting to sleep. They never did have a rematch.

Clint turns over and pulls him close. “Yeah, you really suck at it.” 

Phil laughs and settles in Clint’s arms. They’re both skimming round the edge of sleep, and it’s such a delicious feeling to be so near to dreaming with his lover so close, Clint feels like they’ll have the same dreams.

“I love you,” he murmurs as he begins to let go, slipping further and further into the black.

 

-


End file.
